


Patch Job

by derwentian



Category: Half-Life
Genre: M/M, but also very vague bc i didn't want to get anything wrong lol, canon divergence bc the lack of first aid drives me nuts, it's That Scene from act 3 baby! you know I had to, rated T for cussing and also mild gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25835479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derwentian/pseuds/derwentian
Summary: Gordon's been betrayed. Tommy provides support, both physically and emotionally.
Relationships: Tommy Coolatta/Gordon Freeman
Comments: 7
Kudos: 145





	Patch Job

Now that the horror of Bubby and Benrey’s betrayal has worn off, the main thing Tommy feels is guilt. Guilt that he didn’t see it coming, guilt that he didn’t stop it, guilt that he’s waiting here in this room for Gordon instead of going to find him. He  _ could _ go wandering around looking for him, but he has no idea what the soldiers did with Gordon after all that. Where would he even start? This spot here, some kind of waste treatment facility, is a bottleneck in the area’s geography; if Gordon is anywhere nearby, he’ll come through here on his way forward. It’s the most likely bet of running into him again.

Thus Tommy has no choice but to sit and wait in this awful little room with nothing to pass the time but the first aid kit he ripped off a wall on his way here. Gordon will need medical attention, if he makes it this far. The HEV suit is designed to minimize the impact of most injuries, but it can only do so much. It’s tempting to spiral off into his own panicked catastrophizing—what if Gordon doesn’t make it, what if he bleeds out on the way, what if something attacks him and he’s defenseless—but he won’t be of any help if he’s worked himself into a fit before Gordon gets here. So instead, he pops open the first aid kit for the fifteenth time, catalogues its contents and their uses for the tenth time, and goes over his plan of how to most efficiently treat Gordon’s injuries for the seventh time.

As he’s about to start his fifth round of contemplating whether it would be worth taking along any leftover supplies from the kit when they’re done, something snaps him back to attention—a noise somewhere nearby, maybe on the other side of the far wall. Some kind of scraping or thumping. Gordon comes tumbling out of a drainage pipe a second later. It’s a bit higher up than would be comfortable for a person to fall from, even if they had both hands to brace for impact; Tommy finds himself darting forward to break Gordon’s fall before he’s consciously decided to do so.

Catching Gordon isn’t particularly difficult, all things considered. He’s a fairly big guy, but Tommy’s stronger than he looks. As for Gordon, he doesn’t look  _ great, _ but still much better than someone who got a hand chopped off has any business looking. That suit does good work. “Hello, Mr. Freeman.”

The look on Gordon’s face is hard to parse—confusion, surprise, and some other third thing—but Tommy’s voice seems to snap him out of it somewhat. “Hi, Tommy.” A fraction of tension seems to leave him as he says it. “I’m so glad to see you, man. What are you  _ doing _ here?”

“I was looking for you,” he says, crouching to deposit Gordon on the floor. It’s close enough to the truth, and it sounds much better than admitting that he was sulking around in here the whole time. “I thought you might—that you’d need help.”

Gordon snorts, though more bitterly than usual. “Yeah, you’re fuckin’ right about that. I’m _ fucked, _ man. Look at this shit.” He waves his arm-stump around for emphasis, as though Tommy hasn’t been keenly aware of its presence this whole time.

Still, the motion draws his eye. The wound isn't bleeding anywhere near as much as it should be—dimly, he remembers hearing something once about an experimental clotting agent being among the HEV suit’s cocktail of dispensable medications—but he still finds his gaze stuck on the steady drip of red while the guilt gnaws at his ribs.

If Gordon notices, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he shifts his weight to peer over Tommy’s shoulder at something behind him. “Is that a first aid kit?”

“Yeah. I… brought it with me, to—for your arm.” With some effort, he manages to tear himself away and pull it over to where Gordon’s propped himself against the wall. “I didn’t know what you’d need, so I just—” he mimes sticking it under his arm like a football.

“Wow. Thanks, Tommy, that’s—” he pauses, thinks about something, knits his brow together. “Wait, aren’t those usually nailed down? Did you just, like, rip the thing off the fucking wall with your bare hands?”

He did, didn’t he. He hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, but now that he’s thinking about it, he can see how that would be a bit odd. “…I was very stressed, Mr. Freeman.”

Gordon just laughs, like that’s a satisfactory explanation. “Whatever, man. I’m not gonna question it.” He sighs with a profound weariness, which is pretty fair, all things considered. “I’m just glad you’re here, Tommy.”

This is a lot to deal with, suddenly. His nerves are rattling out of his skin, pulled between Gordon’s attention and the ever-growing pool of blood and the wound he needs to dress that he can barely bring himself to look at. “I’m glad you’re here too, Mr. Freeman. And now I’m—I’m gonna fix your arm.” 

He’s very scared, though. Of whether he can do enough to fix this even temporarily, of whether it’s already too late, of whether he might somehow make things worse. But Gordon doesn’t need to know any of that. The poor guy’s dealing with enough as it is.  _ He’s _ the one who got dismembered. 

“The HEV suit already stopped most of the bleeding,” Tommy says, popping open the first aid kit for the sixteenth time. Maybe if he comes at this scientifically, he’ll have a better chance of keeping focused. Something else to think about. “Which is why you didn’t—why you’re not bleeding too much.” Thank god for that. Even this amount is making him feel sick.

Gordon goes ‘hm’ in a thoughtful way. “That makes sense. I  _ did _ figure an amputation was supposed to bleed a lot more than this, but I wasn’t gonna push my luck by questioning it.” He holds out his arm for Tommy to inspect, fully trusting that Tommy will help and not hurt.

“A  _ lot _ more. You should have bled to death ages ago, Mr. Freeman.” Maybe his bedside manner could use some work. He’d like to think he’s still doing pretty well, given the circumstances. Tommy takes hold of Gordon’s arm with a fair bit of hesitation, flinching away for a split second when his fingers touch the metal. It’s cold, much colder than he’d expected; for some reason he thought the suit would be warm, like an extension of Gordon’s skin rather than a shell worn on top.

Gordon notices the flinch, of course, and offers an apologetic grimace. “So, uh, what’s the diagnosis?” He can barely keep the laugh out of his voice, tired though it is. “Give it to me straight, doc.”

It’s an obvious attempt at distraction, but it’s working. Tommy makes a noise of deep contemplation as he dresses the wound, both to stall while he thinks up a comedic answer and to distract himself from the ache in his chest. “Well, Mr. Freeman, I think—I think you’ve got a pretty serious case of, uh… handectomy.” Gordon snickers, which jostles his arm; Tommy pins it against his knee to keep it still while he works. “You can tell because the hand’s been… ectomied.”

“Is that so?” Gordon smiles for what Tommy assumes to be the first time since this all happened. “Excellent work, doctor. Your skills of deduction are unmatched.”

“Mhm. That’s why I’m the handectomy specialist around here.” He pauses, focuses on what he’s doing for a moment while an idea rolls around in his head. “Hey, Mr. Freeman. When we get out of here—” when, not if. A bit presumptuous, maybe, but he’s got a hunch. “When we get out of here, we’ll get you a new hand.” Not sure how yet, but he’ll work on it. Maybe his dad could do him a favor.

Gordon blinks a few times; whatever he was expecting Tommy to say, it wasn’t that. “What, like, from the cybernetics department? Isn’t that stuff government property?”

Wait, is it? Tommy’s never thought about that before. “Well… maybe. But so was this, so.” He nudges the first aid kit with his foot, then pats Gordon’s arm. “There. All done. We’ll—we’ll have to change the bandages a few times, probably, but that should do it.” Having some extra material in the way will staunch the bleeding for a while, but there’s still a gaping hole where it shouldn’t be. This isn’t even remotely a permanent solution.

“Thanks, Tommy. That wasn’t so bad, actually.” Gordon sighs, drags his hand through his hair. “Well, I guess we should get going. On to the next disaster, huh?”

He sounds less hysterical than he did a few minutes ago. That’s good. Tommy takes hold of Gordon’s hand and pulls him upright with what he hopes is an appropriate amount of force. “Yeah. We’re really having a fucking day, huh, Mr. Freeman?”  _ We’re _ having a fucking day. Both of them, together, not either of them dealing with it on their own.

Gordon snickers a bit. “We sure are, bud.”

**Author's Note:**

> Can we make it a tradition to write your own version of this scene? Because I love all possible iterations of it.
> 
> Comments and feedback are appreciated!


End file.
